Divorce, Murder

Divorce, Murder

By Joe Registrato

Divorce, murder. Divorce, murder. Divorce, murder.

Brownfield is lying in bed next to his naked wife, so close he feels the warmth of her body and the tenor and depth of each breath, the soft throaty sounds of deep sleep. It is the only moment of peace he will have this day or maybe this week. She is oblivious to the roller coaster she controls on which he is an unwilling passenger, strapped in and gagged like a cartoon character as the ride swings him around hairpin turns and mind bending dives at terrifying speeds. She is blind to the suffering she has caused and will continue to cause if he doesn't get away from her, somehow, somehow. And soon, please let it be soon.

Divorce, murder. Divorce, murder.

This nightmare is not a dream or a fiction, the panicky terror roiling in his gut will not disappear after breakfast or end by closing a book. This is real life and it is real horror, way scarier than anything Stephen King has conjured.

He takes in air. In almost total darkness, he reaches for his watch on the nightstand. He finds it and holds it a few inches from his eyes. The dimly lit dial reads 2:23 a.m. He throws the covers off, sits up, swings his legs off the bed and stands up. Julia does not move. He paces out of the bedroom and into the hallway that leads past their daughters' rooms and into the living room. He looks out the big window at the massive oak tree in the front yard, its thick green roots running a few feet along the ground before disappearing beneath the grass. The tree, gray and dark in the glow of a street light, dominates the yard, the house, everything. Why can't he?

The children are a complication. Wait, no, way more than a complication. If it wasn't for the children, he could walk out and he and Julia could go their separate ways and that would be the end of it. The children are way more than a complication. They will be hurt and hurt badly no matter what course he takes or doesn't take, for that matter; they will be hurt no matter how it comes out. Either way, they will suffer. But left the way it is, they will also suffer, although they may not yet realize what she is doing to them, how permanent the damage.

She is mentally ill, some form of depression or personality disorder, he is convinced of that. She has also inherited the need, desire, and the will to dominate every relationship in which she is even tangentially involved. She has also inherited a broad mean streak, most likely from her father, who, she told him once, forced her to stand on a single floor tile and not move for long periods, a foot-square cell block. These cruel, dominant genes have combined to turn her into something like a monster.

Divorce, murder.

He has taken to wonder whether it is even possible to have such thoughts. Can a person considered normal in most respects, college educated, no criminal history, no obvious mental defect, seriously consider killing another human, never mind his own wife, the mother of his precious children, the woman he once "loved," whatever that meant, so powerfully he could not live without her?

There had been some violence. Growing up in New York City, there had been street fights, but he had never been seriously hurt nor had he seriously hurt anybody else. He was on the junior high wrestling team, a form of fighting sure, but a form sanctioned by the public school system, for God's sake. There was also the United States Marine Corps, and the Vietnam War. People were killed in Vietnam, that was true. But this violence was not just sanctioned but required, encouraged, even hailed as heroic. Did any of that make it possible for him to consider murder as solution to domestic discord? He was still staring out the window at that magnificent tree when the first dim light of day broke through the darkness, and he was still terrified.

****

He was napping one lazy Saturday afternoon in the dimly lit family room on a comfortable recliner. Julia breezed into the room and pulled open the blinds, flooding the room with bright sunlight and startling him awake. Without so much as a "hello," she left him alone, smiling cattily as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. This was her way of winning, getting one over on him, dominating, running him down, dominating.

He hears his wife's penetrating screams all the way on the other side of the house: "Lau-ra." She was summoning their 11-year-old daughter in her usual way, like a drill instructor might order a recruit around or a prison guard might speak to an unruly inmate. "Lau-ra. Get in here now."

His wife has broken a leg when she stepped on the gas instead of the brake and smashed her car into a tree. A metal rod has been placed in her leg and she is immobile and will be immobile for some weeks or months. The children, especially the older girl, has become something of a servant.

He hurried into the room.

"What is it?" He asks. "I'll get it."

"Where is Laura? I need her to help me with the wash."

"Don't worry about the wash. I'll do the wash. Laura is outside."

It pacifies her for a time. In a few minutes she is back at it.
"Lau-ra! Get in here now."

He lowered his head. This child is basically a perfect child. He has never even so much as raised his voice at this child. She is gifted in several respects. He does not want her harmed, damaged, negatively impressed by this maniac. How can he protect her? Even divorce will not do it. Only murder. He is nauseous.

While driving his wife and her sweet, Louisiana-born mother to an appointment, he asked if either of them could move some clothes hanging on a bar behind the rear seat, he heard his wife say, "Just ignore him, Ma."

He was watching a basketball game on television. It was a late NBA playoff game in which Julius Irving was flying around the court, soaring above the outstretched arms of ineffective defenders.

Without a word, Julia walked to the television and changed the channel.

"Hey, I'm watching that," he said indignantly

"You've seen enough sports today," she responded, and left the room. She was not interested in watching something different, only that he not continue watching sports. What audacity, what defect of mind does it take to tell another person, even a stranger, they have "seen enough sports" for a day? Dominate. Win. Run down.

When Julia told him she wanted to talk, he thought she was going to tell him she was pregnant with their third child and wouldn't they need an extra room and extra help and extra everything and wasn't he supposed to "get fixed" so this wouldn't happen? He was all ready to say that he never actually agreed to the fix and anyway wouldn't three children be great?

Instead, Julia the wife turned into Julia the monster.

"I'm getting an abortion and it's your fault."

She delivered this bombshell with venom and ferocity, and it crushed him. He did not respond immediately because she was explosive and he thought he should let her cool off. When he did respond, he felt weak and ineffective.

"Isn't there a better way? Can't we talk about it?"

He could not remember her exact words but the answer was no, there was no better way. Dominate. Make the point. Win.

*****

Julia insisted they see a marriage counselor and Brownfield readily agreed. During a session when Julia was not present, Brownfield described to the man, a highly intuitive, stoic psychologist, what it was like; the incidents with the children, the put-downs, the domination.

"It's depression," the counselor said without hesitation. "She needs to be on medication."

"She won't take it. She'll tell you you're the one with the problem."
"That's fairly common."

"Is there a strain of depression that makes you mean? Sometimes she's just mean. She'll scream at the children for no reason. I asked her not to stuff too much stuff in the garbage disposal, she does it anyway. Then I have to take the thing apart and she just smiles about it."

"It sometimes comes off as extreme irritability; a brittleness in all situations, in all relationships. No tolerance or flexibility, yes?"

"Yes," Brownfield said. "What do I do, doc? It's killing me."

"If she won't take medicine, she at least needs to be in long-term counseling."

"Yes. She'll end up firing the counselor, I'm telling you."

"Yes. I know."

Brownfield shook his head, looked out the little window in the shrink's office at a very intact, puffy white cloud that was drifting slowly across a perfect blue sky.

"I'm starting to hate her, Doc."

"It happens," the shrink said. "I'm sorry."

******

The lawyer's name was James Caltigirone. He had a hat on in his Internet photograph and it made him look like a friend Brownfield had in the Marines, except this guy was a little overweight and a lot older. That was as good a reason to pick a lawyer out of the thousand or so you found listed. Brownfield explained the situation.

"You'll have shared time with the children after you separate. You know, you'll get them

certain days and nights, she'll get them the rest of the time."

"She's mean to them. She has depression."

The lawyer shook his head slowly. "Unless she's abusing them, burning them with cigarettes, beating them, she'll get them at least half the time."

"What if they don't want to stay with her?"
"That depends on their age. Your kids are, what? Eight and Ten? Not old enough to state a preference, I don't think," the lawyer said.

The lawyer straightened up in his chair. "But the big thing, Mr. Brownfield, the big thing you're not thinking about is alimony. If she's not working, you're going to pay her alimony."

"Jesus. How the hell am I going to do that?"

"The court's going to order it. Almost for sure. On your income, you'll pay her."

"For how long?"
"You've been married what, 18 years? You might have to pay her permanently. That means until you die, or she does."

"Jesus," Brownfield said.

"Alimony, I can see how that can be bad. But my kids. I can't let her treat the kids the way she's treating them."

"Like I said, unless you can prove child abuse, you're not going to be around to supervise."

Brownfield stood up.

"I got to think this over," he said, and turned to leave.

"Just let us know when you can't take it anymore."

*********

It was rainy out when Brownfield met Ed Deitz at the neighborhood basketball court where the players, Deitz and a bunch of neighborhood kids, were in a rain delay.

"I got to talk to you," Brownfield said.

"Jesus, you look bad, Brownfield. What's up?"
"What's up is this. What I'm going to tell you has to remain a secret, is that okay?"

"Hey, man, remember me? Vietnam? Danang. Chu Lai. Naked kids running around Dogpatch. We did a lot of nasty shit over there. It can't be worse than that, can it?"

"Okay. I want to talk to you about killing somebody."

Deitz laughed and looked at the sky.

"Are you crazy, man? Kill somebody? You got to be out of your mind."

"I need to find out what you think."

"I think you're crazy, that's what I think. Kill somebody." Deitz shook his head.

"It's my wife," Brownfield said, not laughing.

Dietz stopped laughing. "You're serious."

"I am. Could you do it?"

Deitz shifted around.

"You know I can do it, Brownfield. You saw me do it, a lot."

"That's why I'm here. I saw you do it."

"But that was in a fucking war, buddy. It was legal. It was necessary. Those bastards were going to kill me if I didn't kill them first. That's a helluva lot different than some goddamn woman, to say nothing of your goddamn wife. Are you out of your fucking mind?

"I know. I think I am out of my mind. But I got to do something. If I divorce her, I'm going to lose my kids."

Deitz shook his head. "You're not going to lose your kids. That's not how it works."

"Well, it's like that. She'll have them half the time. She's mean to them, Ed."

"Mean to them. So let's just kill her, right? Brownfield. You saved my life, man. I'd do anything for you, you know that. You don't want to do this."

"I'll pay you."

Deitz looked at him.

"I don't care how much you want to pay me. I will not kill your wife."

Deitz was right of course. It would be crazy.

Brownfield drove home.

******

Divorce. It was not a win, but not a loss.

At least it was the end.